The Other Woman (24 page)

“Ritchie has something else to tell you. Bear too.”

Rival looks at Bear, then at me.

“Bear and I…we’re best men for Bradley’s upcoming wedding,” I manage to blurt out, feeling like a jerk.

A hurt look crosses her face as her eyes move between Bear and me.

“Sorry,” Bear mumbles. “Couldn’t get out of it, Rival.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” I say. “But…”

“Congratulations,” she finally snaps and hurries out of the room.

We all exchange helpless looks.

****

SCARLETT

Who the hell does Arena think she is, turning me down? That bitch, that slut, that whore!

My invitation read;
Let’s mix business with pleasure,
because I suspected she may not accept my invitation because of that fruitcake Rival. I threw in the word
business
as a decoy, and she
accepted
my invite, to my surprise. I thought, cool, I now will have the opportunity of using our dinner party to woo her away from Rival.

But, guess what she did? Go on, guess. You’re right, she did not show up! Sent flowers and a lame-arse excuse with Bear about her not feeling “good.” What the hell does that mean? Can you believe her cheek? I’m bristling with fury.

And…she turned down my invitation to be one of my bridesmaids. Seriously, she actually had the gall to say no.

But I’ll show that bitch – I’ve enlisted Isla, a hot nympho, to replace her, and to couple with (key word being
couple
) her husband.

She should be very concerned something might happen between the smoking hot Isla and Bear. I mean Isla is a fucking pole dancer.
Teaches
pole dancing.

I’ve informed Isla about Arena, and she’s promised to teach Arena a lesson. She plans to get Bear drunk and ship his arse off to the bathroom for the rendezvous of his life. She promises to take lots of photos and send them to me, which I will in turn send to all Arena’s friends. Then, over a glass of Merlot, I will watch Arena topple off her high seahorse and learn a valuable lesson: a man hasn’t cheated simply because he hasn’t had the opportunity. All men (yes, all men), given the opportunity,
will
cheat. Not because the chick in front of them is hot and sexy or even young, but because he gets a chance to taste fresh pussy. That’s it. Clear as crystal.

And pay particular attention to those men who adamantly state that they will never cheat, because they are the ones who will break easily, snap like a dry twig in a drought, because they are so rigid. Rigid is what you should be wary off.

Don’t believe me? Ask your man and listen to his answer. If he is vehement that he won’t cheat, it’s time to freak the fuck out, trust me.

Well, back to Arena Shaw, the whore, the fat, white trash – doesn’t the bloody bitch realize I am going to be First Lady of Australia one day? That I am going to live in Kirribilli House, and that if she shows me respect, she just might get an invitation to dine with me? That I will be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Michelle and Barrack one day?

Evidently, she’s too dumb to understand that. Well, anyone who crosses me better understand that I always have the last word. You’re either a friend of Scarlett’s or you’re not. She’s not. She chooses to back some looney-bin reject rather than us. She will pay for that. One way or another, she will pay.

As for Ritchie, don’t think I haven’t sensed a change in him. He is unusually reserved, and seems to be studying me when I’m not looking, but not in an admiring way. It is almost as if he is scornful of me. Disapproving, that’s what I see in his judgmental eyes.

He’d better not be taking Rival’s side. I will make him sorry too if he dares cross me. He has to remember that I witnessed a backdated power of attorney. If that document disappears, the original at that, he will be in deep, deep shit. I have the power to make his life very miserable.

****

RIVAL

Bun and her sister live in a six-bedroom, five-bathroom, double-story, meticulous house.

The room I’m renting from them is on the top floor, situated at the back of the house, allowing me the privacy I need. Their property is located on a hill, and their backyard, like Ritchie’s, has beautiful bush views, not to mention the amazing bird life. You can bask in the sunshine, hear the birds chirping, and enjoy beautiful sunsets while seated on your balcony.

In fact, I plan to acquire my very own bird bath and a feeding hutch so that I can have colorful visitors throughout the day.

My room may be small, but it’s well contained. It has a single bed, a dressing table that doubles as a desk, a wooden high-back chair, a small bedside table, and a surprisingly large closet. The en suite is small, but adequate.

It’s a far cry from the home Scarlett stole from me, but it will do for what I have in mind.

Ritchie has been Bun’s neighbour for about four years, but they do not speak or greet each other, which is unusual in this area, as everyone here is friendly toward each other.

Because Ritchie’s property is lower than Bun’s, from my balcony, I have a clear view of his entire property, including his pool and entertainment area.

“Drop by anytime,” he said, when he heard I was moving out of Arenas and into Bun’s. “Use the pool whenever you need.”

Since Bun and Sooraya, or Raya, as we call her, have covered up their pool with wooden slats (I have no idea why they would do that), I plan to take him up on that.

Raya, Bun’s older sister, is a lovely lady with knee problems. Strike that – she’s a grouchy bitch with bad knees and has to shift her massive weight (probably two hundred pounds or so) around really slowly, and always with the aid of a u-shaped ambulatory device that she is totally reliant on. Being barely mobile does not in any way lessen her moodiness and arrogance. Her mouth is in particularly great shape. Better than Bun’s, in fact.

But the best part about her ailment – climbing the stairs to visit me in my room is out of the question. That is really good news. Wonderful, in fact, as I don’t want to talk to her unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Raya’s bedroom, or suite, is situated downstairs and is located directly opposite the front door. It is always ajar, and when anyone enters the house,
after
removing their shoes (strictly after), they look straight into her suspicious face.

According to Bun, Raya is only forty-five, but she looks like she’s sixty and moves like she’s ninety.

“No visitors,” she barks. “And absolutely no men in your room. Mess up once and you’re out that fucking door.”

Since I don’t plan on taking any men into my room, I have no problem with the rule.

“And clean up behind you in the kitchen!”

“Sure.”

“And never touch my Magnum ice creams in the fridge.”

I wouldn’t take her stupid ice cream.

“My almond Magnum. And my Swiss cheese. Don’t touch it.”

I groan to myself.

In spite of her meanness, I am being charged a measly hundred dollars a week, which includes broadband internet, electricity, and water.

How can I complain? Of course this discounted deal is purely because of Bun. I think Bun is lonely and wants company. Raya, on the other hand, wants someone other than Bun to boss around.

Bun’s room, which is three times the size of mine, and five times cleaner than mine, is also located on the top floor, but at the front of the house. The rooms are separated by a huge landing, which is a bare and unfurnished waste of space.

Arena helps me move. I throw open the blinds for her to look outside.

“What lovely bush views,” she says in a breathless voice.

“God, I hate the bush,” Bun says from behind us.

“Ohmygod, look at those lovely birds,” Arena says.

“God, I hate those birds. They shit all over the place.” That’s Bun, not me.

Arena peers out into the bush. “Are those people picnicking there? Maybe they’re bird watchers?”

“God, I hate those birdwatchers. They come every weekend with their stupid binoculars and nose around. Fucking Annoying.” Again, that’s Bun, not me.

“I’ll bet you guys have amazing sunsets?” That’s me.

“Mm.” That’s Bun.

“Is that a squeak I hear?” Bun asks, her eyes narrowing on my patio doors.

“I can’t hear anything,” I say.

“Me neither,” Arena says.

Ignoring our comments, Bun walks over to the errant patio door and stares it down for a few moments.

Then she opens and closes the door several times. “That’s a squeak! There, see? We have to get it fixed. Right away. We have to fix it. Raya!” she shouts over her shoulder.

“What?” Raya replies.

“Call the handyman.”

“What the fuck for?”

“We have a massive problem. The patio door, it’s broken, Raya. And it’s making a terrible sound.”

A short silence follows as Arena and I exchange baffled looks.

“You sure she didn’t break it?”

“Who?”

“The one whose husband left her for a younger woman?”

Arena and I exchange shocked looks.

Bun looks at me, her eyebrows elevated. “Did yous bre –?”

“Hey, I didn’t!” I snap.

“God!” Arena whispers and rolls her eyes.

“She says she didn’t break it. Call the handyman. Tell him to come right away.”

“Okay,” Raya shouts.

Arena and I step onto the balcony and look around. “Gosh, you can see right into Ritchie’s property,” she says.

“Yeah, he said I must drop by and use his pool any time I need to. I plan to take advantage of—” “What did he say?” Bun yells.

Arena and I whirl around to look at her. Could she be that angry about him inviting me to use his pool?

“He…eh, he said I must use his pool any—”

“He’s not answering!” Raya shouts. “I left him a message.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Call him again. Tell him my OCD is kicking in big time. I need this door fixed. He’s supposed to be on call twenty-four-seven. Call that motherfucker again.”

“FINE!”

By now, all the birdwatchers are looking up at the house with their hands shading their eyes, probably wondering what all the yelling is about.

When Bun notices them, she flares, “What yous looking at, huh? No birds here. Turn yous eyes that way.”

Embarrassed, Arena and I scramble back inside the house and make our way downstairs.

“Are you sure about this?” Arena whispers, her eyes darting around. “My guest suite is yours until you decide you
want
to move out, Rival. You don’t need to confine yourself to—”

“They’re okay. Just loud mouths. If it doesn’t work out, I will return, tail between my legs.”

“No, no, no, don’t feel that way. I once lived in an apartment the size of this, or slightly bigger, and I was thrilled to have my independence. So I get—”

“Where yous from?” Raya’s voice booms in my ears.

Both Arena and I turn around and find her looking at Arena.

“Wahroonga,” Arena replies.

“Not that. Which country?”

“Eh, South Africa.”

“God, another immigrant,” Raya mutters, shaking her head, disgust all over her face.

Arena and I exchange exasperated looks.

“I s’pose they’re also from there?” She jerks her head toward Ritchie’s house.

Arena shrugs.

Raya nods. “Explains it.” Her pudgy face contorts with revulsion.

“You have a problem with migrants?” Arena asks, turning her whole body to look at Raya.

“Yeah. Of course I do. ’Stralia’s crawling with them. They’re fucking taking over this country.”

“Aren’t you from Lebanon?” Arena asks, keeping her cool.

“Yeah, but I’ve been living here for thirty years.
Thirty
years. So I’m not an immigrant anymore. Understand?”

Arena says nothing.

“That man next door, that migrant – buffoon, I tell yous. He throws his kids into the pool. Thinks he’s King Kong the way he beats his chest. Fucking crazy bastard.”

“That man is my brother,” Arena says in a voice cold with control. “And he loves his kids and he plays with them. So shut the fuck up about him.”

Raya’s eyes widen.

“As for migrants; you’d better get used to them, or take your shit, your fat arse, and fuck off back to Lebanon.”

That loud gasp you hear is me. Raya is going to beat the shit out of Arena with her ambulatory device. She’s like four times Arena’s size, and Arena is going to be shish kebab!

Arena flashes Raya a smile that does not reach her eyes.

That’s the thing about Arena – mess with her and she’ll turn the other cheek. Pick on family or a loved one and she will put her foot up your arse. Especially Ritchie – they are tight even though they argue and bicker all the time.

Raya glares at Arena. Arena doesn’t flinch, and they enter into a staring competition.

I start to panic, my mind racing. Doesn’t Arena realize that Bun is still in the building? Together Bun and Raya will flatten Arena. Unless I intervene. I would have to; Arena is my friend.

Ritchie! Maybe I can yell for Ritchie to come over and help. He’s just next door and he has big muscles. Bet he can take down Bun and Raya at the same time.

“Oh, God!” I mutter. “I’m gonna need more medication after this.”

Just then Raya’s phone rings, and she takes her eyes off Arena to look at the screen. “It’s the handyman,” she yells before she takes his call.

I seize the window of opportunity and pull Arena into the kitchen. “So, the fridge? Have you seen it? I am allowed to use a part of it.”

Arena doesn’t answer, she just shakes her head.

I chuckle at her pursed lips. “You can be quite a lass now, Ms. Shaw, can’t you?”

“A lass?”

“Yeah, girl gangsta. The ones who wear long socks…”

“Ah.” She looks in the direction of Raya, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I don’t start shit, Rival, but…don’t mess with my
boet
. He’s precious to me.”

I nod and break into a grin. “Saw that look on her face?"

“Yeah, I did.”

“Saw the look on your face?” I ask.

We both burst out laughing.

****

RIVAL

It is by far one of the hardest things I’ve had to watch, yet I have to see it for myself – their wedding video on YouTube for the world to watch and envy.

I have to torture myself and watch my husband dressed in a dark grey tuxedo, a burgundy tie, and a crisp white shirt. He's looking like the dashing executive he is, beaming as he watches my friend, or former friend, glide down the aisle.

I have to hear them vow to love each other in sickness and in health, and a promise that only death will part them.

I have to see my two beautiful girls float like angels in their white satin and tulle mid-calf frocks, with tiaras on their heads which match the tiara on the head of the woman who stole our lives from us. Who is denying them their biological mother.

Six flower girls, a page boy who looks like cupid in a white satin suite, and a maid of honor in soft lilac.

Eight good-looking bridesmaids, also in the softest of lilac, hold bouquets of white roses and face eight best men wearing tuxedos that match my husband’s.

Ritchie MacMillan looks good – by far the best looking traitor at the party. I have to admit, Scarlett is fetching in her ivory satin and organza dress, embellished with tiny crystals and silver sequins that sparkle when it catches the light.

Her waterfall veil is beaded in tiny pearls, and her train fans out in the shape of an oyster around her legs when she stands across from my husband.

Her shoes are white satin peep-toe with diamantes, and her bouquet is a waterfall of white and ivory roses.

“I now declare you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I watch the love of my life kiss his new bride, then dip her, to the delight of the guests, before they rush out of the church amidst a sprinkling of rice.

The wedding reception is held at
Hilton Green
, one of Sydney’s finest and most exclusive wedding venues…that I helped choose. Yes, the irony of it all – without knowing it, while I was still with Bradley, I went bridal shopping with Scarlett and helped plan her wedding to my husband. Fool that I am.

How Scarlett manages to get married and post on Facebook at the
same
time, I have no idea, but she does. Unless she has employed someone to post for her.

“They’re honeymooning in Hawaii,” I hear one of the guests say. “Taking the children with them.”